Angell, Pearl and Little God

by Winston Graham

  Little God was at the door. Her whole body seemed to lurch, to want to shiver.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Blue uniform, sober and tidy. All that black luscious hair subdued, face quite formal, without expression. Clear skin shining. He touched his cap. ‘ Beg pardon, ma’am, is Mr Angell in?’

  ‘Go away!’ She was beginning to shut the door.

  ‘I got a message for Mr Angell! He told me to call, see.’

  ‘Go away!’

  ‘As soon as I give the message. I brought a message he asked me for, see. I’ve got a message.’

  ‘What are you here for? Why are you pestering me again?’

  ‘I’m not! Honest! Didn’t know you were here.’

  ‘That’s a lie! You’ve come—’

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr Angell. It’s important! Let me in.’

  She opened the door an inch or two further, drew behind it because his eyes, not as impassive as his face, had been looking her over.

  ‘What sort of a message?’

  ‘About Lady Vosper. I’m her chauffeur. Been her chauffeur for years. That’s her car we went out in. Mr Angell’s her lawyer. He asked for me to bring a message.’

  Somehow he was inside, not very far from her. The hall was dark when you shut the door. It was the only dark room in the house, and even white paint didn’t lift the shadows.

  ‘You’re Mrs Angell now, I suppose. I heard you was married. I went round to your old home, asked for you—’

  ‘Yes and threw a flower-pot through the window!’

  ‘What a dirty lie! There was some snotty-nosed kids round behind one of the cars when I left. Maybe it was them—’

  ‘Yes, maybe it was them.’

  ‘You don’t need to sound so sarcastic. I never done you any harm, except that once I scared you. Anyhow don’t give me away or I’ll lose my job! I’ve come to see your husband, Mr Angell. I’ve not come to see you. I can’t help it if you’re here, can I?’

  ‘No, you can’t help anything—’

  ‘You’d think I done you an insult being crazy about you. I was crazy about you, you know that. I’d – I’d have done murder for you if you’d asked, I would straight. That’s the sort of sucker I was. But it’s all over now. You’re married, so that’s that.’

  ‘Yes, I’m married.’

  ‘Happy, I hope?’

  ‘Very happy, thank you.’

  ‘Well, that’s smashing, isn’t it. Got a big car of your own now, I suppose.’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, we haven’t.’

  ‘Well, smashing place you’ve got here. I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll call my husband.’

  ‘You’re still the tops, Pearl, for me. Groovy. Honest. Just to look at you—’

  ‘If you begin again—’

  ‘No, no. O.K., O.K., I give up. I’ve come to see Mr Angell. Right? I got a message for him, that’s all. On the level.’

  She left him there with his olive skin and his small rippling muscles and his gleaming eyes.

  That night at dinner Pearl said: ‘What did he want – Lady Vosper’s chauffeur?’

  ‘What? The chauffeur. Oh, he had a message for me. Lady Vosper has been very ill again, but she is feeling better.’

  ‘Couldn’t she telephone you?’

  ‘Um? No. This is a private matter.’

  ‘With Godfrey Vosper?’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Godfrey Vosper, the chauffeur.’

  ‘His name’s Godfrey Brown. No, of course not with him. How could it be with him?’

  Pearl moved her Georgian silver fork so that the light reflected on it.

  ‘Did you know I knew him before?’

  ‘Godfrey Brown? When?’

  ‘I met him two or three times before I was married.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know.’ Angell looked across the table at his wife, but his surprise and disapproval were not sustained before her candid gaze. ‘ Very unfortunate. You met him. When was this?’

  ‘Oh, at a dance. And twice afterwards. We weren’t friendly. I didn’t like him.’

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t friendly.’

  ‘I didn’t like him,’ she said.

  Wilfred, relieved of the need to criticize her taste, became judicial. ‘Well I can’t say I see anything to dislike in him particularly. As a particular type, one could even call him interesting.’

  ‘I’d rather he didn’t come here again, Wilfred.’

  ‘What? D’you mean he was insolent to you in some way?’

  ‘Not tonight. Oh, no, butter wouldn’t melt. But I—’

  ‘Of course it is embarrassing now you are my wife to have to meet people you knew before. Lady Vosper’s chauffeur … unfortunate. Did you know he was that?’

  ‘Of course not. I thought he was a boxer.’

  ‘So he is – or so Lady Vosper says. But it’s a part-time occupation.’

  Silence fell. She had not combed her hair as much as usual and it clung on her shoulders in heavy luxuriant folds. Her eyes were very bright, her cheeks flushed. She was wearing a frock she had bought that day, although he did not know this, and it diverted his attention from the six lamb chops he was eating. It was a sort of soft grey chiffon, very very light material, with a halter neck like a knotted rope and hundreds of tiny pleats falling straight down from the neck to the hem. The material looked too light and flimsy to be quite fair on him over dinner.

  She said: ‘He told me his name was Vosper.’

  ‘Who, Brown? I suppose that was one of his jokes.’

  ‘He boxes under the name of Vosper.’

  ‘Does he, by Heaven. That is certainly impudence. Flora Vosper must know, for she told me she went to see him box.’

  ‘And he borrows her car more or less when he wants to.’

  ‘Their association may not be exactly a normal mistress-servant one. He’s certainly very sure of himself.’

  ‘Do you find him attractive?’

  Angell looked up, and she smiled at him brilliantly. He put in another mouthful of food, chewed three or four times and then swallowed it. ‘I don’t know quite what you mean, my dear. A man who finds another man “attractive” can only have one name – at least in the charitable world of S.W. 3.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I trust you did not. But the little man is very personable in his way. I see that. His vitality has an immediate animal appeal. I can understand his being attractive to women – some women.’

  ‘But not to me?’

  ‘You have said not. I should be very disappointed in your taste if he appealed to you. Pass me the potatoes, will you?’

  ‘They’re finished. I didn’t do any more.’

  He blew through his lips. ‘Not enough, Pearl.’

  ‘They’re fattening, Wilfred. Bad for me. I don’t want to put on weight. You wouldn’t want me to put on weight, would you?’

  ‘Er – no. I have always been fond of them, though.’

  ‘There are a few more beans. Do you find me attractive, Wilfred?’

  He put the beans carefully on his plate. He took out his library spectacles, polished them, then did not put them on. ‘Of course. You must know that. I asked you to marry me.’

  ‘Attractive in the way that Anna Tyrrell was attractive?’

  ‘Yes. In the same way. But I am older than I was when I knew Anna.’

  ‘Did you make love to Anna?’

  ‘I – made love to her. I never slept with her, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Have you ever with anyone?’

  He froze up in a way that a month ago she would have found intimidating. ‘I think you forget yourself, Pearl.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve no right to ask me a thing like that! Good God! No right at all!’ He took a sip of wine and then a longer gulp.

  ‘Shouldn’t I have the right? I’m your wife.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no intention of answering
you!’ His face had flushed.

  She said: ‘I’ve never slept with a man.’

  ‘So I should think not indeed!’

  ‘Not so very many could say that at my age.’

  ‘That’s one of those silly statements that can never be either proved or disproved. Anyway, whether you’re right or not, I’m not interested in generalizations.’

  ‘But you are interested in me?’

  ‘I’m interested in you, of course. In every way. Were you drinking before dinner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you drink?’

  ‘Vodka. There was some vodka. It just happened to be there and I had a little vodka.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you like this before.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Wayward. Almost wanton. If—’

  ‘I’m young.’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes to me you seem very young—’

  ‘You’re not old, Wilfred. Are you? Are you?’

  He slowly finished his last mouthful and put knife and fork together. ‘ What sort of pudding have you made?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘None? Then is there—’

  ‘I forgot. I intended making something light. Light and cool. But I forgot. I’m sorry. I forgot.’

  ‘Oh … it doesn’t matter. For once. Don’t make a practice of it. Is there cheese?’

  ‘I’ll bring it.’

  She went out with a light and swinging step. When she came back he was standing by the mantelpiece with a glass of wine in his hand. She came over to him and buttered one biscuit and put a piece of cheese on it and offered it to him. He stared at it as if it were the apple in the Garden of Eden, and his gaze travelled past it to the long hand holding it, and the wrist and the rounded forearm and the elbow and the upper arm with the slightly flattened plane towards the armpit. He took the biscuit from her and munched it, and she buttered one for herself and came and stood beside him and ate it with him.

  ‘You’re not old, Wilfred,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of that. You don’t look old. You look quite a young man.’

  ‘I am – a comparatively young man. But I am mature, not given to—’

  She said: ‘Why don’t you kiss me?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ he asked suspiciously, as if he were being offered an unexpected clause in a leasehold.

  ‘It’s easy. There’s nobody to see us. Do you mind?’

  Instinctively his fingers went up and brushed a crumb of biscuit off his lips. ‘It’s not a question of minding, Pearl. It’s—’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘What is it then?’

  They stared at each other for a very long moment. She was wanton and he despised her for it.

  ‘Pour yourself another glass of wine,’ he said.

  She did so and buttered him another biscuit.

  Chapter Nine

  Among other things, Godfrey had come to say that Flora Vosper and he were leaving for Merrick House on Tuesday afternoon. On the Tuesday morning Godfrey went down to the Thomas à Becket gym for his last work-out with Alf Manter before Manter left for Boston for his title fight.

  Godfrey drove the Jensen down the Old Kent Road at five to eleven, parked just off the main road and opened the side door of the big gaunt pub and went straight upstairs. He never cared for the smell of beer and the tinny music and the barmaids wiping down the tables and the early customers propping up the counter. Before a fight, even a sparring match, there was a sort of snarling austerity about him that he never let Flora Vosper see.

  When he got up to the big bare L-shaped room above with its tall dirty windows, its ring and its punch-balls, Manter was already stripped and doing some shadow boxing while about eight people watched.

  ‘You’re late,’ said Cohen. Godfrey glanced at the clock. ‘Dead on time.’ ‘ Ten forty-five, I said.’ ‘Eleven I agreed with Alf.’

  ‘Kuh, kuh, kuh,’ said Alf, delivering fierce short jabs at his unseen opponent. ‘Kuh, kuh, kuh.’ It was his way of pretending, Godfrey thought. Like a kid, making his punches land every time, hitting the other fellow. Well, he’d soon have someone to hit. There were two men in the room he didn’t know, also a photographer from the Daily Mirror, a reporter from Boxing News; three or four other blokes he knew vaguely. He went in to change.

  Fred Bingham was in there, Alf’s other spar-mate. They nodded. Then Cohen, who had followed him in, said: ‘I’m giving you the first two rounds, God. Then two for Fred, then two more for you. I want him to get a good work-out this morning but not too much rough stuff.’

  ‘As if I could hurt him with these pillows and his motoring helmet,’ Godfrey said sarcastically. ‘Who’s that dark joe out there? The one with the camel hair coat and the glasses.’

  ‘Never you mind who’s out there,’ said Cohen. ‘ Just keep your thoughts on Alf. He’s not going to pull any punches this morning.’

  He went out and Fred Bingham began to tape Godfrey’s hands. ‘The man with the glasses, he’s Jude Davis.’

  ‘I thought I seen him somewhere. Doesn’t he manage Tabard?’

  ‘Yeah. And Bushey. An’ he was the one that built Llew Thomas up from butcher boy all the way to the Lonsdale.’

  Godfrey went out again and into the ring. It was prepared as though for an actual fight, except that there was no referee. Cohen from outside the ring would act as referee. Jude Davis was a thin dark Welshman of about forty-five, and he was talking to the press photographer and leaning on his umbrella.

  The gong went. Alf Manter was one of the most generous men out of the ring, but in it he could be really mean. With his protective headgear he looked like a ton-up boy in a bathing suit. They knew each other’s style well and most of each other’s tricks, but this was their last meeting before Alf left, and a bit of extra competition came in. Alf had perfect style and perfect balance. His reputation was to win on points; rarely was he ever knocked down, his weakness was that he seldom knocked down anybody else.

  This day happened to be one of the few in his career. In the second round he swayed his head back from Godfrey’s sharp left, turning a fierce punch into an innocuous tap, but for once Godfrey had been able to disguise the right cross he had been following up with, and Alf grunted and slipped down and was on the canvas for about five seconds before he recovered himself. Cohen had half ducked into the ring, but seeing Alf getting to his feet again he restrained himself and they boxed through the rest of the round.

  At the end of it no one said much; Cohen took off Alf’s helmet and sponged his face and had a word with him; Alf shook his head vigorously and indicated he would continue. Godfrey got out of the ring, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm and went to the window. Fred Bingham climbed into the ring and when the bell went he took on Alf Manter for the third round. Godfrey kept himself warm jogging around the empty part of the room, shaking his shoulders, kicking his feet out loosely from the ankles, relaxing. Then he went to the punch-ball.

  ‘What’s your name?’ said a voice behind him. ‘Vosper, is it? I haven’t heard of you.’

  It was Jude Davis, eyes narrowed as if with smoke, assessing.

  ‘I been around a bit. Nothing much worth taking on – yet.’

  ‘Whose stable are you in?’

  ‘Rob Robins.’

  ‘What fights has he given you?’

  ‘Bert Bromley, I got a point decision. Ed Hertz; I won, r.s.f. in the third. Tiger Wedgwood; I won, k.o. in the fifth.’

  ‘Bromley is not a bad win. The others are very small fry. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘How long have you been a pro?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘Well, what did Robins do for you before that?’

  ‘That’s all. I was with Pat Regan before that.’

  ‘Never heard of him … Oh, yes, in the Midlands, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Jude Davis leaned on his umbrella. ‘
You look as if you’ve got a punch, Vosper. That one really hurt Manter.’

  ‘It would have hurt more if we’d had proper gloves.’

  ‘Would you be interested in a move?’

  ‘I sure would.’

  ‘When did you sign with Robins?’

  ‘Last year. But I only signed for two. I’m nearly through the first.’

  ‘Um. Something might be arranged. I’ll have to see what Robins thinks. When you’re through come downstairs into the bar and we’ll go into a little more detail.’

  While Bingham was in the ring, the press photographer had been taking one or two shots. Now at the end of his second round – and Manter’s fourth – Bingham climbed out of the ring, his face blotched where Alf had marked him. Godfrey got back in and boxed two more rounds with Manter. But this time Alf was making no more mistakes.

  In the interval between these two rounds Cohen had gone away, and, glancing over Alf’s shoulder, Godfrey saw him in conversation with Jude Davis. It didn’t improve his temper through that last round, but he contained it somehow, and when it was over Alf said: ‘ Thanks, God, you really worked on that.’

  Godfrey went into the changing room, showered himself, put on his outdoor suit. When he came out Jude Davis had gone, and a couple of other boxers were doing some limbering up out of the ring. Godfrey slapped Alf on the back and wished him luck in Boston. Cohen was waiting with his money but he didn’t look at Godfrey as he paid him.

  Downstairs in the bar Jude Davis was talking to an attractive dark girl of about twenty with an impudent face, and a short stout man of fifty-odd with a bald head and no back to it. Godfrey went over and Jude Davis said, ‘What’ll you have?’ and Godfrey said: ‘Thanks, Mr Davis, I don’t drink.’ ‘Then take a seat. D’you know Fred Armitage, the matchmaker?’

  ‘No. How d’ye do. Thanks.’

  Davis did not introduce the girl, who sat knees crossed, turning her lip-stick container over and over in small deft fingers and glancing up now and then into each of their faces in turn. Armitage and Davis went on talking for a while and Godfrey took no part in it, staring at the notices on the walls of all the old fights. Henry Cooper, Randolph Turpin, Len Harvey, Tommy Farr.